Page 25 of Tamed By a Duke
Ethel seemed fit to burst, as she escorted Charlotte from the shop. The lady's maid was near skipping with excitement as they left to make their way back to the waiting carriage.
"What is it, Ethel?" Charlotte queried, once the door had closed shut behind them.
"Oh, Miss Drew," the young woman whispered in an excited gush, "Why, you'll never guess who I bumped into when I went to fetch your shawl."
Lud. Charlotte almost swallowed her tongue with fright; who had Ethel met? If she had been sighted by the wrong person, then Charlotte could say goodbye to any hope of Bianca being allowed to make her come-out. In fact, Charlotte could say goodbye to ever being allowed leave the house again.
"Who?" she asked, her voice sounding much like a strangled cat.
"T'was I."
Charlotte paused mid-step, as though frozen in time. She recognised the voice that had called out from behind her at once, and only had to turn her head to confirm her suspicions.
The Duke of Penrith, dressed in an austere coat of black superfine, was standing on the footpath and glowering at her. His brows were knitted together into frown of annoyance and his eyes traversed her from top to toe disapprovingly.
"Your Grace," Charlotte inclined her head regally, determined not to allow the handsome duke intimidate her. He had no idea as to why she had visited the jewellers, and to show fear would make him suspicious.
"What," he said in a low voice, as he walked toward her, "Pray tell, were you about, pawning your jewels with Mr Bridge?"
Dash it.
Any hope that Charlotte had of talking herself out of her predicament were shot to pieces at his words. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, as Penrith reached her. He was so tall that she had to look up in order to meet his gaze, and as her green eyes locked on his blue, Charlotte found that her mouth had suddenly become very dry.
"Don't try to deny it," he continued, mistaking Charlotte's muteness for mutiny, "The young man inside loudly informed Mr Bridge that you were waiting for him and why. Do you understand how much trouble you would be in, young lady, if it were anyone else but me who had overheard? Tell me, why on earth were you pawning your jewels?"
Perhaps it was the use of the term "young lady" or the imperious, bossy tone that Penrith had used, but suddenly Charlotte was not frightened anymore—she was apoplectic with rage.
"What I do is of no concern of yours, your Grace," Charlotte replied, narrowing her own eyes in anger, "You might think yourself lord and commander of every mere commoner you meet, but you have no authority over me."
She made to flounce away, but a hand—encased in a buttery-soft kid-skin glove—wrapped itself firmly around her wrist.
Charlotte tugged against Penrith's grip, but the duke's strength was such that he held firm with no outward appearance of effort. He was, she realised, far too strong for her to fight, and so she gave up on her struggle, reasoning that if she could not escape him then she would not make a fool of herself.
"Do you read the papers, Miss Drew?" Penrith queried, though he did not wait for her to answer before he continued, "Our names have been linked several times in the gossip columns and there is much speculation that I am seeking you for my bride. I need not tell you the prestige associated with having the world assume you are to be the next Duchess of Penrith. As such, I will expect you to behave in a manner which behoves that position."
Penrith's self-important soliloquy was delivered from a lush, sulky mouth which—despite her anger—Charlotte could not help but feel distracted by. His lips were a strange mix of masculine hardness and soft, full promise; what a pity he felt the need to use them for speaking with, Charlotte thought with a scowl.
"Oh," she replied, in a high falsetto which dripped with sarcasm, "I do beg your forgiveness for not meeting with your exacting standards, your Grace. Might I suggest that you focus your interests on another lady—one who might act as you feel your attentions behove? Or better yet, might I suggest you take your ruddy big hoof and—"
The clatter of a carriage drawing to a halt before Rundell and Bridge brought Charlotte's planned colourful reply to an abrupt halt. She drew breath and glanced nervously at it, suddenly painfully aware that she was standing on the footpath of one of London's most bijou roads, arguing with a six-foot duke.
"You were saying?" Penrith raised an infuriating eyebrow.
"I was saying," Charlotte replied icily, still unable to rein in her temper, "That your attentions are best focused elsewhere, your Grace, if you feel that association with me might sully your good name. Now, if you will excuse me, I'd best be on my way—we wouldn't want to cause a scene now, would we?"
With the last ounce of her strength, Charlotte yanked her hand from Penrith's grip and stalked away toward the carriage, with Ethel on her heels.
"The nerve of that man," she seethed, as the lady's maid clambered into the carriage behind her.
Silence greeted Charlotte's complaint, and she looked up to find that the usually cheerful Ethel wore a look of remonstration. Remonstration which was directed at Charlotte.
"Do you think me uncouth for arguing with the duke?" Charlotte questioned, feeling a little worried. Ethel was not the sort to ever demonstrate censure, unless one had completely crossed the line.
"I think you cruel for lying to me," Ethel replied, sounding more upset than angry, "You pretended that we were going to Miss Havisham's, when really you had another plan. Now, I don't know what it was that you needed to see Mr Bridge about, but if it upset the duke so much, then it must not have been anything good. I could lose my position, Miss Drew, if your grandmother was to find out about this."
"She won't find out," Charlotte assured her, now addled with guilt for upsetting Ethel.
"We'll be lucky if she doesn't," Ethel replied with a sniff, "For you and His Grace made quite the sight, arguing as you were in the middle of the road."
